


Repertoire of a Terpsichorean

by Survivor_at_Midnight



Series: Dance is Art in Motion [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-12 20:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Survivor_at_Midnight/pseuds/Survivor_at_Midnight
Summary: Terpsichorean /tərpsikəˈrēən/ noun: a dancer.Yuri.Yuri, Yuri, Yuri.Her son, Yuri Plisetsky.For the first time in over a year, Svetlana falls in love with another green-eyed blonde male.Companion fic to Playlists of an Executant.





	Repertoire of a Terpsichorean

**Author's Note:**

> >   
_If there's a God out there_  
_Please hear my prayer_  
_I'm lost and I'm scared_  
_And I've got nowhere else to go_  
_I've come a long, long way_  
_But I'm not sure I can make it much farther..._  
_So if you're listening, could you give a helping hand_  
_To your daughter_  
-His Daughter, Molly Kate Kestner  


“Lilia, you must secure your hair with a tie before using pins. Otherwise the bun will never stay.” 

Lilia Baranovskaya, sixteen-year-old soloist for The Russian Ballet, turns her piercing gaze on the woman standing behind her through the mirror of her vanity. The sylphlike form of eighteen-year-old Svetlana Ivanov stares back at her with a bemused expression and a hair tie dangling from willowy fingers. She is unmoved by Lilia’s rocky look, and steps closer to fix the mess of hair and pins. In mere minutes she’s tamed all of Lilia’s unruly fly-aways into a sleek bun bracketed by the small tiara of her costume.

“Your young man is in the audience again,” Svetlana remarks casually as she works on her own hair. “On the stage-left balcony in a lovely grey silk number.”

Lilia sniffs delicately and reaches for her  _ pointe _ shoes and darning needle, purposefully ignoring the bait. “And what of your own young man? I heard he tried to come back here last night.”

The two men in question – one a blonde with striking green eyes and the other a charming brunette – have been attending almost every performance since the Ballet came to the Hermitage Theater in St. Petersburg. Svetlana’s certain Lilia has set upon the auburn-haired gentleman, though the younger woman has yet to admit to it. She herself is cognizant of the blonde’s pursuit of her attention, and she smiles to herself. “I am aware. I was the one who sent him away. I didn’t want him to get into trouble with Madame Markova.”

“You show him too much favor.” Lilia’s voice is as flat as ever and she isn’t even looking in Svetlana’s direction, but the older woman hears the silent inquiry anyway.  _ Why? _

She does not know Lilia all that well, she’s only recently joined the Ballet about half a year prior. It’s a small wonder that she’s made it to  _ soloist _ in that short a time. All the same, she has no wish to garner enemies, so she might as well try to grow some friendships. At the very least, she’s judged Lilia to be truthful and honest to a fault, and that’s something she values when she finds it in people. Thus far, Lilia has warmed a little to her, and that little is all Svetlana needs.

“Perhaps” she hums. “He has his charms. In any case, I will go to see him myself after this evening’s show.” Svetlana ignores the fluttering in her chest as she slides on last pin into her hair. “Come on, we need to head to our opening spots.”

Lilia has finished lacing up her  _ pointe _ shoes and rises to her feet, and Svetlana turns to make sure her friend follows her through the maze backstage to their opening positions.

* * *

Svetlana has never been so anxious for Madame Markova to finish class as she is today. Aleksander is waiting for her outside the ballet hall, and every second that passes is simultaneously exciting and crushing. They’re to go out to a fancy dinner tonight, after seven months of late night walks home and surprise lunches during her breaks, and she’s nothing but a walking ball of nerves. A small blessing that her feet haven’t fumbled over themselves in class. 

Lilia delivers a swift nudge to her arm, jolting her out of her light daydreaming. Just in time, too, because she gathers herself together quickly enough to start her sequence on time. Madame Markova doesn’t comment on her inattention, although she gives Svetlana a sharp look of warning. Oh, she saw her lapse, and the implied  _ ‘don’t let it happen again’ _ is heeded with fervor for the next two hours. The rest of the  _ corps _ finishes their part, and with a few clipped words they’re dismissed. 

Grabbing Lilia’s hand, she all but drags the other ballerina to the change rooms. “He’s outside, Lilia, he said to dress nicely but I don’t know what he means by  _ nicely _ , so I brought a few different outfits, help me choose one-“

Lilia yanks her hand from the older woman’s grasp and forces her to sit on a bench. “Do not move.” 

Svetlana twists the hem of her practice skirt in her hand as Lilia flips through the more-than- _ a-few _ outfits hung in her small private closet. She trusts Lilia’s critical eye, donning the wine sheath dress that’s handed to her quickly. A white feathery shawl is draped around her shoulders as she tugs on her low heels. Then Lilia’s hands are in her hair, tossing it this way and that, twisting some pieces and pinning others until her honey hair has been wrestled into a sweeping elegant knot low on her head.

“You’ve certainly gotten good at fixing hair,” Svetlana quips as she fumbles with her earrings. 

“You haven’t given me much of a choice,” Lilia replies as she hangs up her practice outfit. Svetlana supposes the younger woman is right. She corrects Lilia on her hair routines so often it’s inevitable the brunette learns how to do her hair by now. “You will tell me how tonight goes before class tomorrow.”

Svetlana hugs Lilia quickly. “Only if you introduce me to Yakov.”

“Fine. Go, before Aleksander worries.”

Letting her friend go, Svetlana grabs her bag and rushes out the door. A shy smile slides over her lips at the sight of a tall blonde holding a single burgundy rose standing under the soft light of the street lamps.

* * *

“You are more unfocused than usual.”

Svetlana glances up from the  _ barre _ to the imposing figure of her best friend with her hands on her hips. “Am I?”

She knows she is. Lilia knows, too. And she’s always been able to wait Svetlana out.

Said woman cracks, releases a breath, and sinks to the floor of the dance hall. “He asked me to marry him.”

“Hmm.”

Svetlana picks at a run in her sheer stockings. “I don’t know what to do, Lilia. I just became a  _ principal  _ last year, and the invitation to work with American Ballet Theater is so tempting. It’s so rare for a company to  _ ask _ for a ballerina to be a guest artist. But I don’t know if I can handle starting a family right now. It’s been just over a year. What if he gets sick of all of the moving? Or he wants children? I-“

“If he loves you enough to ask for your hand, then he will respect you and your career. He knew all of that was part of a ballerina’s life.” Lilia’s voice is soft but firm. It’s a ground wire for all of the anxiety crackling under her skin. “If you love him enough to accept his proposal, then you will respect him enough to tell him your concerns. You will work them out, and you will find your place – whether it be on a stage, next to him, or both.”

It’s hard to see her hands in front of her. It’s only when a droplet falls onto her arm that she realizes she’s crying. “I’m scared, Lilia.” She’s only twenty and so many roads lay before her, and she can’t see to the end of any of them. The unknown is frightening.

Lilia scoffs besides her. “You are Svetlana Ivanov,  _ prima donna _ of The Russian Ballet. You’ve defied physics hundreds of times and you captivate all who look at you with magic. You should not be cowed by a  _ question _ .”

Of course, the brusque woman is right. She withstood a decade and a half of long, taxing days and late performance nights and hours upon hours of practice. She’s performed for millions of people over the years. She’s one of the best ballet dancers in the  _ world _ . Of all that she’s accomplished, answering a question should be a trifle. 

And heavens, does she love Aleksander. 

Lilia, the shrewd woman, understands her inner thoughts as though they were spoken. Her next words are almost smug in their forcefulness. “I think mauve as an accent color will do. As your maid of honor, I will see to your dress. Have you considered the venue as of yet?” she questions as she stands and turns to stretch at the  _ barre _ .

Svetlana is left a bit speechless. “For what?”

“For what?” Lilia glances down at her in mild incredulity. “For your wedding. What else?”

Svetlana can only laugh, and she feels lighter already.

* * *

If there was a time that Svetlana Ivanov-Plisetsky thought she could handle being a married woman, it’s been long forgotten.

She and Aleksander have barely been in the small apartment they’ve rented. He works long days at the local pharmacy, and she works long evenings at the studio. Whenever they are in the house together, they’re either preparing to head out or preparing to go to sleep. After her guest appearance with American Ballet Theater, she’s had to pick up a part-time job at a small café on her route to the studio, because between the rent, the bills, and her ballet expenses, there just isn’t enough money. And if she’s not at the studio or at work, she’s cleaning around the apartment.

Aleksander is nothing if not patient, though. He’s giving her time and space to work out a new equilibrium, and she’s grateful. Juggling all of these responsibilities is tiring in a way that a ballet class isn’t. But three months in, and she’s carving out her new definition of normalcy.

She’s in the middle of cleaning the dishes from dinner when she hears the door open and close. Hands come around her waist and blonde hair falls over her eyes when her husband kisses her cheek. “Evening, Svetlana. I’m sorry for being late. I hope you aren’t mad,” his voice washes over her.

Well. She was a little upset that he had missed dinner, but it was a fairly common occurrence. Their schedules were just too different. Now, though, she feels the little twinge of annoyance fade away with the apology. “No, not at all. I’ll warm your food up, love.”

Aleksander backs away enough to let her fetch the plate she set aside. By the time she sets the warm plate down in front of him, he’s already on the couch in the small living room with the news playing on the television. 

Svetlana’s about to head off to sleep a few hours later when she hears Aleksander call for her. She’s tired, but five minutes shouldn’t hurt. She stands in the doorway to the living room; her husband hasn’t moved from his spot in front of the television all evening. “Yes, love?”

“Would you be able to pick some groceries up tomorrow? I’m planning on inviting my manager over to work on a project and discuss a promotion.”

Tomorrow she has an early shift that ends right before her ballet class, and then an early evening performance. “I’ll get them on my way home.”

“Thank you, Svetlana.”

He never looks away from the small flickering screen.

* * *

The first time they sleep together is painful. 

Svetlana pleaded off on their wedding night, because her cycle had come early. For half a year after that, they’re just missing each other, one of them asleep when the other walks in, or both too tired to actually suggest anything. Now, though, it’s the off season for the Ballet, and Svetlana finds herself with a bit more free time now that evening performances have ended. 

It’s awkward and rushed, and there’s an empty feeling left inside her when it’s done that has nothing to do with her husband not being over her.

* * *

Seeing Lilia so frazzled is amusing, Svetlana thinks, as she watches her friend tear through her closet once more. She can’t think of any other time when she’s seen the brunette in such a state. 

Lilia showed up on her doorstep earlier that morning, wanting help because Yakov finally gathered the courage to ask her friend out to dinner. Neither woman had anything to do that day, one of the rare days they had off from practice, and Svetlana let the younger in without hesitation. Sure, she was planning to sleep all day, but helping her friend with her mid-life crisis always comes first.

Said woman throws  _ another _ top onto the bed. “Svetlana, what are all of these shirts doing in your closet? You hate patterns.” She holds up a hanger with a complex black-and-white floral patterned dress up, shaking it for emphasis. The tag on it jumps around, a splash of yellow against the monochrome.

Svetlana just shrugs as she fights off a yawn. “Aleksander liked it, so he bought it for me. It’s too small, though.”

Lilia huffs and tosses it onto the bed, pulling out a peach dress and shuffling around through various drawers until she pulls out a pair of leggings to go with it. She’s changed in a flash and then fighting with her hair. “One would think your husband would know your preference in clothing. Or even your size.”

The older woman lightly slaps her hands away from her head and charms a fishtail braid into existence, tugging at the strands to transform the simple braid into an artfully messy updo. “I might have gained some weight. A lot of clothes are tight on me now. Besides, the dress is cute. If it fit, I’d wear it.”

“Hmm.”

That’s Lilia’s  _ ‘something isn’t right and I’m about to tell you what’ _ hum. Sure enough, her friend locks eyes with her through the mirror of the vanity.

“Are you pregnant?”

Svetlana nearly drops the comb on the floor. “…I don’t know.” But it would make sense. The weight gain. Her fatigue. The nausea that always comes when she jumps or turns in class. “I might not be pregnant,” she whispers lamely.

Lilia makes her take a test anyway. She doesn’t know what to do with the little cross that shows up.

_ Oh God. _

The next thing she’s aware of is Lilia’s hands on her shoulders, keeping her seated on the bed. She doesn’t even recall moving across the room. The lights seem to be pulsing overhead and she feels as though she has performed every programme she has ever done back-to-back. Whatever Lilia is asking or saying falls on near-deaf ears. When she’s steady enough to sit on her own, Lilia calls Aleksander, who rushes back to the apartment. Svetlana refuses to let this ruin Lilia’s date, though, and ushers her out of the door before her husband arrives.

It gives her exactly half an hour to cry in peace.

* * *

She hands in her formal resignation to The Russian Ballet two days later. The scared look Aleksander has on his face every day is what makes the decision for her. 

Madame Markova formally gives her the title of  _ prima ballerina assoluta _ . It’s the highest honor any ballerina could have, the title only bestowed upon the best dancers of a generation. It’s only given in recognition of an exemplary career. She cries in the locker room as she clears out her effects. She’s the fourteenth and the youngest ballerina to ever receive the title, at twenty-one. It’s not as glorious as she had hoped.

* * *

“What happened?” 

“Hmm?” Svetlana turns to face Lilia, who’s bringing in bowls of ice cream from the kitchen to satisfy her cravings. Lilia’s eyes are on her shoulder, though, and she glances down to the large yellowing bruise showing past the loose neck of her overly large shirt. Damn, she forgot to cover that one. And with how big it’s gotten, she’ll need to buy more foundation soon if she intends on going out.

“I tripped over the rug and hit the coffee table a few days ago,” she explains while reaching for the ice cream.

The younger woman stares long and hard at her, but doesn’t say anything more on the matter, and instead talks about transferring to the Bolshoi Ballet and her slowly budding romance with Yakov. Svetlana listens and offers her advice where she’s able, firmly tamping down on the bitter taste of guilt gnawing at her. She will not burden her friend with her problems. She will not drag her into the mess she’s created for herself. Not when she has a chance to be what Svetlana could not be.

* * *

Svetlana meets Alexander’s father, Nikolai Plisetsky, when she needs to go to the hospital for a check-up and Aleksander is in an important meeting with the board staff of a stock company. She doesn’t count the wedding, because she was far too busy with Aleksander to remember much of the day anyway. If she met Nikolai then, she doesn’t remember. 

She’s not expecting to see sharp eyes and a quick mind in the small man in front of her when she opens the door. Nikolai’s eyes dart around the apartment and over her form in a matter of seconds, hard and calculating. He must find whatever he’s looking for, because then his entire countenance changes, and he smiles warmly up at her.

“Come along,  _ чадо _ . We don’t want to be late.”

Nikolai proves to be good company, his quick wit and gruff charm teasing a few laughs out of her, and he waits with her for the results of her blood test. They’re alone in the cramped little examination room, and she’s feeling slightly chilly in the flimsy gown. Her father-in-law’s eyes are sharp, and she doesn’t even have the chance to comment on the temperature before his fur-lined coat swaddles her trembling form.

His fingers linger a moment too long on the nape of her neck. 

The doctor comes in with the generic  _ ‘you’re coming along fine, the child is healthy’ _ and she’s released with orders to eat balanced meals as often as she can and to exercise. Then she and Nikolai are heading back to the old, beat-up corvette for the hour ride back to her little apartment. He walks her up to the door and into the living room. It’s a curious thing that this man’s son is so different than he is.

“Do not walk alone,  _ чадо _ .” He presses a key into her palm, and she looks at the small piece of bronze as though it’s freedom. 

Maybe it is.

* * *

She spends many days with Nikolai, and he never questions her sudden appearances. He might be out at work or buying groceries and come back to his little house to the smell of fresh  _ solyanka _ soup, or lemon and pine if she decides to clean. Once he found her pulling up the weeds in his back yard one particularly warm spring day. There’s a small garden of perennials guarding the back porch now.

He never comments on the growing number of bruises or remarks on her thinning body. She knows he wants to ask, that he wants to help, that he cares for her as though she were his blooded daughter, that her silent suffering hurts him almost as much as it hurts her. He’s not as good with words as his son with the quicksilver tongue - Nikolai Plisetsky grew up during the Great Purge and World War II and is gruff and blunt and observant as he was taught to be - so he lets her hide in his house, and he cooks meals large enough to feed her old troupe, and he buys her medications and creams to help with the pain.

She hears him yelling at his son over the phone more than once. She’s afraid to go back to the little apartment after days like that.

She has  _ someone _ on her side, yet she cannot summon the words to covey her gratitude, because she is a coward and selfish and can’t even manage something as simple as a ‘thank you’. It’s entirely ungrateful of her, to abuse his generous hospitality so, and she knows she doesn’t deserve it, so she helps her father-in-law as much as she can to repay him. She hopes that one day the small voice in the back of her mind will quiet.

It’s her husband’s voice that rebukes her.

* * *

Yuri.

Yuri, Yuri, Yuri.

Her son, Yuri Plisetsky.

For the first time in over a year, Svetlana falls in love with another green-eyed blonde male.

* * *

Svetlana is  _ desperate _ to keep her little boy happy. Her little Yuri. He shoots up like a little weed, small enough to cradle in her arms one day and then running around in her old  _ tutu _ and tiara the next. Even at four years old, this little boy is the true love of her life. And he loves her right back. 

“ _ Maмa’s _ a fairy princess!” he declares as he watches her twirl through a few easy  _ soutenus _ in her old ballerina regalia. Yuri squeals in delight as she lifts him high and spins him around and dips him low and hugs him close. They spend as many hours as they can together, and she captivates those large green eyes with stories from when she danced with the Ballet. When she traveled the world and performed for all sorts of famous people. When she poured her heart and soul out onto the stage.

Little Yuri can’t believe his  _ Maмa _ has danced where real-life princesses used to dance, that his  _ Maмa _ performed for a really-real king and queen once, that his  _ Maмa _ was wanted by so many people. His  _ Maмa _ is amazing.

“Teach me how to dance like you  _ Maмa _ ! I want to be a fairy too!” Yuri pleads, and Svetlana doesn’t have the heart to turn him down. 

“Alright then, my little  _ фея _ . But you will have to work hard.” 

“I will! I promise!”

The front door slams shut. Oh no.

Her eyes slide to Yuri, who is digging through her old practice flats and trying on the smallest ones to find a pair that fit. 

“Yuri, love, stay in here and listen to this music. When I come back I want you to be able to keep count in time with it. Do you understand?” She hurries over to the record player in the corner of the bedroom and plays some Chopin. She turns the volume up and spins back around to see confused wide green eyes.

“…I understand,  _ Maмa _ .” Yuri’s sullen, but he knows better than to disobey. He doesn’t want  _ папа _ to yell at him.

Svetlana takes her son’s face in her hands and presses a kiss to that beautiful golden hair. “I will be back soon love.” Then she steels her nerves and walks out the door, closing it behind her so that the music is nothing more than a muffled refrain.

There’s a smudge of pale pink lipstick on Aleksander’s collar. It’s the last thing she remembers seeing clearly.

* * *

Yuri is far too observant for a six-year-old.

“ _ Maмa _ , what happened?” His fingers grab at her wrist and gently push the sleeve of her leotard up. Svetlana curses in her mind. She’ll have to start wearing foundation around the house all the time now.

“Nothing,  _ фея _ .  _ Maмa _ just fell earlier today during some turns. Straighten your back, and tuck your hips in.” Oh, how she hates lying to her child. Every word is more acrid than medicine.

Yuri is quick to obey, but he’s not completely focused yet. “You’re a  _ prima ballerina assoluta _ ,  _ Maмa _ . You don’t fall.” He forms the words in his mouth slowly; he might not know what the title means, but he knows what it implies.

A wry smile tugs at her lips. “When I first started, I fell often. How do you think I know how to treat all of your aches? I once had them too. It’s been years since I was with a troupe; I fall every now and then.” She guides a thin arm to curve over braids of gold hair. Yuri seems to be satisfied with her answer, and she takes care to cover every mark from then on.

* * *

Nikolai takes Yuri to ballet camp run by Yakov Feltsman every Monday and Thursday during the summer months in the familiar corvette. Partially to get the child to leave the apartment more, partly to give Svetlana a tiny bit of space, and partly to keep the boy out of the house when Aleksander comes back. 

It’s surprising that she managed to hide his father’s vicious nature for eight years.

Yuri’s commented on how thin she always is, and always when she braids his hair back for practice. She cooks three large meals a day, and there are always leftovers in the fridge to be warmed up. He tries to get her to eat more. She can never finish a plate, no matter how small it is. Her body is so used to burning more calories than she eats now. And that sadistic voice in the back of her mind insists that she can stand to lose a pound or two more.

It’s when he comes back from ballet camp one Thursday to see her rubbing ointment on a bruised rib that he understands that his  _ Maмa _ isn’t as clumsy as she claims to be. 

She begs and pleads with her son to not act on his righteous anger. She can handle this. She wants her little boy to enjoy his life, not to worry about her. She doesn’t want him getting hurt. She couldn’t bear it if her little  _ фея _ got hurt because of her. It would kill her if a single bruise ever blemishes her Yuri’s pure face.

Her quiet tears coax a promise from him to not do anything. Instead, he swears, he’ll watch over her instead.

Oh, heavens, she loves her child.

* * *

“ _ Maмa _ !”

Svetlana fights a hard war to open her eyes. She’s rewarded with the sight of sunlight in human form at the side of her bed. “My dear  _ фея _ .”

“ _ Maмa _ , what’s happened? You’re pale … and cold!” Yuri is clutching her thin, bony hand. Such fear is in his voice that Svetlana feels remorse for causing such trouble for her little boy. Nikolai appears on the other side of the bed with the quilt that she loves, draping it over her trembling body.

She pulls her hand away to smooth down Yuri’s frazzled hair. The braids she put in this morning are gone, leaving soft waves in the gold. “Nothing, love. I’m just tired.”

“ _ чадо _ , this is more than  _ ‘nothing’ _ ,” Nikolai chides her. He already has the house phone in his hand, and twenty minutes later, she’s in an ambulance. It’s loud, and the ride is bumpy, and the paramedics are confusing her with all of their questions. As soon as she has a moment of peace, she closes her eyes. 

When she opens them next, she’s already been in the hospital for hours.

Yuri is sleeping next to her, head resting in the crook of the arm that holds her hand. Nikolai is in a chair in the corner of the small, dingy room, and he’s looking at her as though she’ll fade away any moment. 

“Aleksander has been detained,” is the first thing he says.

Svetlana knows it’s wistful thinking to hope that her husband will stay locked away. “He’s a powerful man now, Nikolai. He won’t be there long.” Softly, gently, she pulls her hand away from Yuri’s grasp and threads her fingers through the soft locks. “Take care of Yuri for me when I’m gone, please. He can’t touch my little boy.”

“Don’t speak like that, Svetlana! The child needs you!” Nikolai hisses at her. 

Oh, she knows. She doesn’t want to leave. But she could always tell when the music ends, when a piece draws to a close. She gets an odd mix of completion and longing for more in her heart.

She feels it tug at her heart now.

“Promise me, Nikolai. Please.”

She’s never seen her father-in-law look so defeated. “I swear, Svetlana.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

She isn’t released from the hospital. Her body is too frail to live without the help of the machines. Yuri comes every day after school and ballet. Nikolai spends his Sundays in that chair in the corner. 

It’s a beautiful Tuesday in the middle of August when she hears the closing notes of her song. 

Yuri is sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, talking about Yakov’s summer camp, about how they’re taking on junior division figure skaters to help them improve their form. He’s still the best one there though, he assures her. Svetlana smiles. Of course he is. He’s her son, after all.

“Yuri. My dear little  _ фея _ . Come here, please.” 

He doesn’t even hesitate, dodging the wires connected to her arm and tucks himself into her side like he used to all those years ago. He’s still so slim for a nine-year-old boy, but he’s strong. He’s so much stronger than her, it’s a marvel. 

“Dear love. Promise me one thing.” She plays with his hair, gently pulling errant strands from his face.

“Anything,  _ Maмa _ .”

“Promise me that one day I’ll see you dance your heart and soul out on a stage.” It’s a lot to ask of a child not even ten, who’s fought through so much in so little time. But her little boy can do it. She’s never been more certain of anything in her life.

“Of course,  _ Maмa _ . You’ll watch me captivate everyone like you once did. I’ll make you proud.” It’s as if Yuri wants to speak the words into existence, that if he says it enough times it will be true. Like he refuses any other outcome, like he can grasp fate by the horns and steer it himself.

“You’ve already made me proud, dear Yuri. So very proud.” Oh, she will miss her little boy.

She sings him to sleep with their lullaby. Once, twice, three times, until his green eyes hide behind gold lashes and his breath is slow and steady. Then she sings it once more to herself, to comfort her as her eyes close, and she dreams of a golden beauty with green eyes shining from within. He takes her hand and leads her to a stage swathed in dazzling light, and they dance together forever, never tiring.

She is happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> >   
_And all will turn_  
_To silver glass_  
_A light on the water_  
_Grey ships pass_  
_Into the west_  
-Into the West, Peter Hollins  

> 
>   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Translations:  
чадо: child in Russian  
фея: fairy in Russian  

> 
> * * *
> 
> This is a companion fic to my OtaYuri Big Bang 2019 entry, which will be put up soon. You don't necessarily need to read this one to understand that; likewise, you don't need to follow up by reading that one, since this can stand alone. But this piece was intended to give a bit of background to events that happen in the other story.  
The two pieces of music at the beginning and ending are gorgeous and beautiful, please go and give them a listen. They really set the tone for this story. Check out the rest of their music as well, I love Molly Kate Kestner and Peter Hollens. They're phenomenal singers.  
Thank you all for reading, and I hope to see you around!


End file.
